


Silenced and Undeterred

by Gem_Gem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 00:38:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3957910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Based on the pilot episode more than the broadcasted episode of "A Study in Pink", but without John and Sherlock ever meeting and Sherlock actually taking the pill from the cabbie and dying in his flat without John there to stop him. John’s life with dead Sherlock.</p><p>Disclaimer: Characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle as well as the creators of the TV show Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue – Bricks Without Clay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pearls1975](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearls1975/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Based on the pilot episode more than the broadcasted episode of "A Study in Pink", but without John and Sherlock ever meeting and Sherlock actually taking the pill from the cabbie and dying in his flat without John there to stop him. John’s life with dead Sherlock.
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle as well as the creators of the TV show Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of several little fanfictions I have started about Ghost Sherlock "Ghostlock".
> 
> I have sort of planned this one out...vaguely. I may continue it soon-ish.
> 
> If there are any spelling mistakes, I apologise!
> 
> I was inspired to post it by Sarah - http://isis1975.deviantart.com  
> Her one-shot spurred me on and can be found here: http://isis1975.deviantart.com/art/Ghost-Hearts-491422752
> 
> P.S. The title may change

John was getting sick and tired of his cramped and cold bedsit. Was getting tired of the nightmares, the cane, and the damned blank blog. Ella, his therapist, had said it would help with adjusting to civilian life if he wrote about everything that happened to him, but _nothing_ ever happened to him. 

December gave way to January, and other than meeting some rugby lads from Blackheath on the 25th, and the nurse Bill Murray whom had saved him when he had gotten shot in Afghanistan, the only other interesting anecdote was the Serial suicides, which continued on, unhindered, until late into March. It was around this time that John had finally been able to get himself a job as a general practitioner and spotted a flat for rent, one that was oddly going for quite cheap for the prime location it was situated.

Mrs Hudson, the landlady, was a sweet woman that smelt of cake mixture and lavender, and greeted John with a pleased expression and warm, gentle hands, leading him up the seventeen steps to the flat to unlock the door.

“It’s still in a bit of a state,” she told John as the door swung open, “the last couple that stayed here sort of…left in a hurry.”

John nodded with a smile and stepped through. The flat was indeed in disarray, boxes of the last occupants possessions piled haphazardly throughout. The first room John saw was a large sitting room, complete with a fireplace and mantelpiece with a number of picture frames and knickknacks adorned along it, the most striking being a skull on the left-hand side. A real human skull, if John didn’t know any better. The furniture was mismatched in a homely sort of way, and the Union Jack pillow on one of the chairs had John smiling. 

“I’ll just leave you to look around,” Mrs Hudson said and turned to make her way back down the stairs. “I just need some soothers, for my hip, you see.”

The kitchen, which was connected to the sitting room, held a small dinning table that John shuffled passed to get a look in the cupboards, noting most of the dishes and other cutlery were still in place. There were two bedrooms, not that John needed two, but at the price the flat was being rented for he could easily change one of them into a study of some kind, or perhaps if he had company it could be a guest bedroom, or John could flat share with someone, though who’d want John as a flatmate? 

John entered the bedroom closest to him; leaning heavily on his cane, and promptly froze a few steps in. In the far right corner stood a man with his back to John, he was a tall man with a head full of dark curls, arms slack at his sides, pale, lean fingers half-curled. His clothes were somewhat ruffled, as if he had recently been manhandled, and consisted of dark denim jeans, and a grey-blue shirt under a black suit jacket. Had Mrs Hudson allowed another potential occupant to scout the place out just like John? He hadn’t heard anyone enter. Perhaps he was the most recent tenant there to collect the rest of his property?

“Oh. Hello. Excuse me,” John said and the man turned his head faintly, giving John a view of the man’s cheekbone and the pale skin of his face as John limped out.

John stood back for a moment and then looked through the rest of the flat, his uneven gait caused him to stumble on his way back down from the upstairs bedroom and he cursed under his breath, breathing deeply through his nose. He peered back into the first bedroom to see if the man was still there but found it empty instead and wandered to the kitchen to see if he was there, glancing at the boxes in the sitting room with a frown. 

“So, what do you think?” Came Mrs Hudson voice from behind him, causing John to jump and stumble on his cane as he turned to face her with a muttered curse “Oh, I’m sorry!”

John smiled tightly and shook his head, “It’s fine. Just fine. And it’s great, it really is. Brilliant location, nice enough décor, and a good lot of space. It’s just great,” John told her, peering around at the boxes again. “Is the previous tenant going to take his stuff now or later? I wouldn’t mind seeing it without the…well, without the clutter.” 

Mrs Hudson shrugged daintily with a smile, “I don’t know, dear. I’ve not heard from them yet, but I’m sure they wouldn’t leave their things here forever,” she said, motioning vaguely at the room. “Does this mean you’re interested in renting it then?”

“Not heard from them? But…wasn’t he just here?”

“Who, dear?” Mrs Hudson frowned, smiling.

“The last tenant. The man I saw in the bedroom? There was a man. He was standing in there and I just assumed…” John said in puzzlement.

“Oh, no. There’s been no one here but you,” Mrs Hudson told him. 

John shifted his weight and titled his jaw, brow furrowed as he shook his head with a huff of breath, “I swear to you, there was a man standing in there not a few moments ago, no less than five to ten minutes ago. He was tall, with curly hair, and he was facing the window…” John explained, looking back at the bedroom and then to Mrs Hudson again, catching a mixture of surprise and worry etched onto her face. “What?”

“Nothing, dear, nothing!” She said with a flutter of her hands. “Will it just be you? Or is there a special someone?”

John followed the movement with his eyes, “Mrs Hudson, is there something you’re not telling me?”

Mrs Hudson wringed her fingers and the edges of her sleeves nervously and laughed in a dismissive way, but then sighed when John lifted his eyebrows in question, “Oh… Okay. Do you recall those horrid suicides that were on the telly and in the newspapers?”

“Yes?”

“Well, you see, one them, one of the so-called suicides…happened here,” Mrs Hudson explained. “It happened right over there, by the table. _Oh_ , it was horrible. I was the one to find him, and it was just too much, too much. He would never have done such a thing, you have to understand, so it came as quite a shock and I don’t believe for a second that he took his life on purpose. Just like the others, I think he was made to do it. Somehow. Oh…it was so horrible. The poor boy…”

John adjusted his grip on his cane and glanced over to the table in question, “Right. Okay. I’m…I’m sorry you had to go through that, but what does that have to do with--?”

“It was him.”

“Who?”

“Sherlock. That was his name. The man who died.” Mrs Hudson said, her voice shaking, and she shook herself and turned away dabbing a handkerchief to her mouth and nose. “The man you saw.”

John laughed shortly and cleared his throat, “Sorry, but, do you mean to say that--?”

“It’s why the previous people left. Why everyone leaves. Why I have to lower the price to even get someone to give it a look,” she went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “No one has seen him before but…he doesn’t like people, you see. He was a very crass but brilliant man, and didn’t mix well with others.”

“Are you trying to tell me that this place is haunted?” John asked, pinching the bridge of his nose and laughing again dryly. “That’s…that’s ridiculous. You can’t honestly believe that?”

Mrs Hudson huffed and faced him, pushing the handkerchief down her sleeve, “It’s not just me! Everyone who lived here since thinks the same. At first it brought a lot of attention, the death of poor Sherlock, but then it drove them away. _He_ drove them away. He would throw things. Move things. Even bangs on the walls and floors! I remember the banging very vividly because it woke me from my evening nap…”

John shook his head with amusement and Mrs Hudson waved a hand at him, bustling down to her own flat. John met her halfway as he made to leave and she thrust a picture at him.

“Here,” she said.

John took it gently and looked at the image of the man that stared up at him. It was a newspaper clipping, and the picture folded over his fingers as he studied the pale face of a man. The man was odd looking with pale skin, high cheekbones, a mop of dark curls and an intense gaze, cool blue eyes that seemingly stared straight at John. The man was wearing a long trench coat with the collar flicked up, and a purple dress shirt beneath a black suit jacket.

John glanced up at Mrs Hudson and handed it back over with a small sigh, “I didn’t see his face, but even if I did, I don’t think it was this Sherlock. It was probably the previous tenant coming back for…for some reason or another,” he told her gently. “The knowledge of a death can stir up stories, Mrs Hudson. People can have a very active imagination and the mind can trick us.”

“I’m not one for believing in this kind of stuff lightly…but I’ve seen and heard the evidence first hand! I don’t know what to make of it, any of it, but…who else could it be but, Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson murmured, stroking the cut out and then glancing up at John with a flush of humiliation. “You probably think I’m crackers. I’d understand if you don’t want to rent the place now. It’s dangerous and--”

“I’ll take it,” John said instantly, smiling at her stunned face and looking up the stairs at the open door.


	2. Chapter One – Obvious Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something had happened, that much was obvious, but what? The pair reminded John of two skittish Deer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a small note to say that chapters/pages may be edited over time. It's a rough story with a rough plot, therefore I will be coming back to it to correct/change/add.
> 
> It's not meant to be scary or taken seriously really. I like having cliched bits and bobs in it to be honest!
> 
> If there are any mistakes, I apologise!  
> Enjoy!

One of the previous tenants, a woman in her mid-twenties, did indeed return after a couple of days to collect the stuff that had been neglected in the rush to leave the flat. She did not come alone however, and was followed cautiously inside by another woman. They turned scared and nervous eyes on John as they packed up the awaiting taxi, and jumped and flinched at any and all sounds, including Mrs Hudson as she brought up a tray of tea and crumpets. John watched them, bewildered and perplexed. Something had happened, that much was obvious, but what? The pair reminded John of two skittish Deer.

John had heard stories about the paranormal, but who hadn’t? It was on the television, it was in movies, it was in history, and almost anyone had a freaky story to tell of their very own, something they couldn’t explain. Sometimes, the paranormal even ended up on the news; with some scared, shaky woman proclaiming her house haunted by the violent spirit of her deceased brother. Videos upon videos of so called “spirit activity” riddled the Internet, firing up debates amongst the believers and non-believers that seemed endless.

Although nothing had been proven, after decades of recorded stories of exorcisms and haunted buildings, nothing and nobody had, proper, solid, scientific proof, and could state without any doubt the existence of spirits, yet people persisted to believe. It wasn’t strange, of course, people had a right to believe in whatever they wished, be it spirits, aliens, or Gods. 

John wondered, and not for the first time, if someone had rigged up the flat in some way. Mrs Hudson didn’t seem the type, and John could tell by her worried expression and tired eyes, that it was getting to her the most - whatever it was – and though haunted hotels and other buildings could get good revenue and attention for their haunted history, it didn’t seem to be doing much good for her. Perhaps someone had a grudge on Mrs Hudson? Perhaps someone wanted the flat, or something in the flat? But then, they would have had to enter it to rig it up wouldn’t they? So if there was anything they wanted, they could easily have gotten it. 

John puzzled it over until his temples throbbed, and took a careful sip of his hot tea. It could be down to imagination, just as he had thought before? It technically wasn’t a new development or an obscure concept; the mind often did such things. If John had told someone that the room he was taking them in was haunted by a little girl in a white dress, well, it wouldn’t surprise John if that person said they saw just that, or heard a child’s laughter. Persuasion of the mind could be very simple. It was almost like the placebo effect. If you told someone something would happen, then, if they believed it enough, for them, it would.

People knew about the man, Sherlock, taking his life in the flat, had no doubt seen his picture in the papers or on the news, so it wasn’t a huge stretch to say that their mind, supplied with that information, created images in the dark and made every creak and groan of the flat seem supernatural.

Still, John had a hard time believing that such things could actually chase people away. So many that Mrs Hudson had to drag down the rent just to get a look-in. Were the previous tenants honestly scared of a few shadows and bumps in the night, or was there something more to it?

“You shouldn’t stay here, you know,” One of them whispered to John, interrupting John’s thoughts and his fictitious read of the morning newspaper in a nearby chair. She was a small woman, with long, straight, dark hair, and black rimmed glasses, her blue eyes wide and shimmering behind the magnified glass. Her shoulders were slumped, entire spine rounded, and she constantly wringed her hands and pulled at the fabric of her skirt.

John plastered a friendly smile on his face and sighed through his nose as quietly as he could, “No? Why’s that then?”

“Didn’t she tell you?” The woman asked with a wave of one jittery hand. Her nails were bitten, fingertips red and chewed. “The Landlady? Didn’t she warn you?”

“Look,” John tried, using a calm and collective tone of voice to try and sooth her nerves, “Something awful happened here, it’s tragic but true, and I can understand you feeling uncomfortable knowing that-”

The woman shook her head, almost violently, “No. No, don’t _you_ start. You think you’re the only person who’s used that line with me? With both of us? A lot of houses, a lot of places, have history in death; the fact someone had died here didn’t bother us at all. It would bother some, but not us. We’re atheists. We don’t believe in the—the supernatural! It’s ridiculous!”

“Okay,” John said slowly, looking up at her with a frown. “So--”

“Why did we leave?” She finished for him, huffing a humourless laugh. “You’ll find out exactly why if you stay. This place, this flat, it’s evil. The man who died here was evidently a nasty, brutish man!”

John blinked at the spitting words and watched the woman recoil from her outburst, looking around in anxiety, as if the vengeful spirit would take offence and punish her for her harsh words. 

“I’m sure there is some logical explanations for whatever happened here to you two. I’ve not been here long but everything seems…fine and normal.” John told her.

“We thought that too, at first everything _is_ fine and normal. At first, it’s just a great flat,” She scoffed, continuing in a low hiss, “We tried to find reasons for what happened over the course of our stay here, tried to find a cause for what happened, but we couldn’t find anything wrong, couldn’t find answers as to why. You need to leave! It’ll drive you crazy!”

John stood with a sigh and held out his hands in a peaceful gesture, “Calm down--”

“ _He_ doesn’t like _anyone_ in his place, moving _his_ things, taking up _his_ space,” She went on, interrupting John. “He’ll force you out, just like he did us, just like he did those before us. It’s just a matter of time. If you leave now, you’ll be saving yourself the trouble, the trauma! What reason would I have with trying to get you out of here? I don’t want this flat, no one does! And neither should you. This flat, it’s _dangerous_.”

“Right, I think that’s everything,” said the other woman, her blonde curly hair sticking up messily at the back and sides, and sticking to her forehead. She looked as nervous and frantic as her friend, and kept shifting her gaze about the room, shifting her weight, eager to leave. 

John saw them both to the door, carrying their last box out to the taxi. As he stepped back and shut the boot, the dark haired woman caught his arm with a cold and clammy hand.

“You’re going to stay there, aren’t you? I know how ludicrous it sounds, believe me, I was just like you when I was warned by the pervious tenant,” She said with a huff. “But please, _please_ , take my advice and leave. Find somewhere else. Anywhere else. Just go, go and _stay away_.” 

She let go of him and looked up at the flat, then dashed into the taxi without a backwards glance. John watched the taxi drive off and then turned to regard the flat himself before he headed back inside.

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired to post it by Sarah - http://isis1975.deviantart.com  
> Her one-shot spurred me on and can be found here: http://isis1975.deviantart.com/art/Ghost-Hearts-491422752
> 
> Most, if not all, of the information I used was nabbed from John Watson's blog: http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/


End file.
